I'll Be the Death of You
by itisunreal
Summary: The aftermath of Coulson's deterioration.


**I'm not great with present tense, but I think I caught most of them or maybe I didn't, just bear with me. Or don't, I don't care either way.**

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She stares unblinking, eyes fixed on his still body and a blood halo. She's on the floor, one leg tucked under her, the other bent against her chest. And her foot is beginning to tingle, pins shooting up her leg. There's no air in the room as she tries to breathe, no way for her to pull oxygen in. Her lungs collapsed, crushed under the force of a long dissipated recoil.

Sitting there, she still doesn't know how any of this happened, how they'd gone from a strained, silent lunch to him lifeless on the floor.

Blood pounds in her ears, and she can't hear anything past the liquid barrier, but she can feel wide, innocent eyes on her, their hard breaths beating against her fog. Her hands tumble, and the gun slips from her fingers, shocking all of them as it clatters on the floor.

Her eyes burn as her mind repeats, 'I shouldn't have had to do this. I shouldn't have had to do this. I. Should. Not. Have. Had. To. Do. This,' over and over and over again. And she wishes her mind would stop moving, but it's all she can think. She shouldn't have had to. She'd brought a specialist on broad specifically for this reason, so she wouldn't have to, so his blood wouldn't be on her hands. But it is, and she can see the red as clear as day.

She wants there to be blame to pass around, so it doesn't all land on her shoulders because how is she supposed to live with herself after this? How is she supposed to go on knowing she'd made the choice to put him down? But there is no blame to give, it's all hers. Because there'd been no one else to do it. Who knew Ward would turn on them? That she'd be the only one left to do a job she'd hate herself for later? There'd been no other option when he grabbed Skye. No reasoning as he started yelling at her that she was Hydra, his arm tightening around the girl's neck.

Airway constricting, a lump forms in her throat, tight and solid as she realizes she should have done something sooner, shouldn't have let him get that bad, shouldn't have let the madness sink in so deep but she'd wanted to pretend, even if it was for only a little while. It wasn't something she indulged in much, if ever, but there was no way to reset him anymore, no way to fix what was broken. And that only left pretending, and avoiding; letting herself believe she wasn't seeing any of the little ticks she should be concerned with.

His blood creeps along, outlining her boot in a stain of red. Covering her mouth, her mind flashes back to a minute before.

Her finger tightens around the trigger.

His face twists in sorrow.

Arm steady as she aims.

And anger.

She exhales, eyes focusing as she pulls back the rest of the way. The sound wave ricocheting off her eardrums as the bullet leave the chamber.

And hurt at her final betrayal.

Skye screams, ducking as Coulson falls from behind her. Fitz grabs Jemma and pulls her to the ground, covering her. And she sinks down, legs unable to hold herself up any longer, her stomach twists and heaves at the sight of him. Blue unmoving eyes on her.

She's killed plenty while employed by SHIELD. Some faces haunt her longer than others, but this isn't the same. This is worse than anything she's done before, worse than Bahrain. And this time, no one is going to pull her back from the fire, save her from the darkness. It encroaches on her now, dotting out the worried glances of the ducklings, muffling their words.

She shakes her head at the affectionate name, a half-laugh half-sob breaking loose. The first time he refers to the three young agents like that, they're watching them bicker in the lab late one night, and he grins like he's just discovered the best thing in the world. And his smile is too infectious not to be passed to her. And so she smiles with him, his joy becoming hers.

The quickly cooling blood clings to the fabric of her pants, digging in to the woven material. And in that moment she hates Fury. For making her do this, for what he'd done to Phil, at the memories he destroyed along the way, herself for agreeing, and Phil for dying again. She knows it's not his fault, either time, and the guilt wraps around throat, squeezing.

Her outreached hand finally falls from midair, and she's standing on shaking legs before she knows it. A question stabs into her from out of the blue, cleaving her heart in two, her mind finally silencing, at a standstill. How was she supposed to look at a cello again? Or hear its song? Or run a bow along tuned strings?

She staggers back, out of his blood, both hands cupped over her mouth as her brain seems to realize what she's done. Bile crawls up her throat, a burning mixture of acid and lunch. And she can't breathe again. What has she done? Why hasn't she waken up already?

A hand on her pulls her back, and she's struck by the dullness of everything around her. Nothing had seemed this bleak a day ago. The ducklings are back in front of her, looking so unsure of what to do. And she realizes she's on the floor again, a beating pain in her chest, and remembers that they're just babies in this life. None of them old enough to know how to handle this themselves. And she wishes someone was there to handle it for her because she doesn't know what to do either. But she's in charge now, so she has to be in control.

Swallowing down the sickness at the back of her throat, she stands again, her legs much firmer this time, a new determination holding her up. He wouldn't want her to lose it, he'd want her to do her job, to keep what was left of their team safe, and intact. There'd be a time for mourning, but it wasn't now, not when they were so vulnerable, unprotected. And she doesn't know when it will be time, but she knows it will come. Knows there will be a day when her icy walls melt into a flood she can't contain, and she worries about what will happen then. But she'll handle it when it comes, and pushes it to the back of her mind for now.

Turning slowly, she returns, dry-eyed, to the cockpit to figure out where to go next without a single sound escaping her. And the ducklings are left a stunned silence.

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**my headcanon demands May be the cellist, just sayin' in case you didn't figure that out already.**


End file.
